Burns Night Supper

Day 104: I am proud of my Scottish heritage despite the fact that it came by way of "the wrong side of the blanket." I have never been quite sure whether it was my grandfather's mother or his grandmother who caught the attention of a McLeod, nor do I know if she was willing or taken by force. In any event, my grandfather went to Scotland to try to solve the mystery of his lineage, and if he did so, it was not related to my mother other than to assure her that she had McLeods of Lewis in her background. Our tartan is often referred to as "the loud McLeod" with variations of the spelling of the family name. I keep with the traditions of my upbringing, and while I would have preferred haggis to Scotch pie for my Burns Night supper, my moral compass will no longer allow me to shop with the butcher who supplied the meat. Scotch pie is made with lamb (if not with organ meats) and I season mine with mace, bay and mixed herbs. The pies are topped with a cornstarch gravy made from lamb drippings and beef broth, and the crusts are a light hot-water pastry. My recipe makes four individual servings. The pies are even better on the reheat, but Scot that I am, the Glen Livet goes back in the cupboard until Burns Night 2023.

#realhaggismatters

Day 104: (Bonus post, just for giggles. Maybe I should have left the Glen Livet in the cupboard.)

Burns Night

Day 104: Th' esteemed 'aggis is devour't, an' a pint o' dark ale t' see it on its way in celebrating o' wee Rabbie Burns' natal day. A fine braw beastie it were, neeps an' tatties t' keep it company. A guid Burns Night t' th' lot o' ye, an' I leaves ye wi' th' Bard's immortal "Address to a Haggis":

Fair and full is your honest, jolly face,
Great chieftain of the sausage race!
Above them all you take your place,
Stomach, tripe, or intestines:
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as my arm.

The groaning trencher there you fill,
Your buttocks like a distant hill,
Your pin would help to mend a mill
In time of need,
While through your pores the dews distill
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour wipe,
And cut you up with ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like any ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm steaming, rich!

Then spoon for spoon, they stretch and strive:
Devil take the hindmost, on they drive,
Till all their well swollen bellies by-and-by
Are bent like drums;
Then old head of the table, most like to burst,
'The grace!' hums.

Is there that over his French ragout,
Or olio that would sicken a sow,
Or fricassee would make her vomit
With perfect disgust,
Looks down with sneering, scornful view
On such a dinner?

Poor devil! see him over his trash,
As feeble as a withered rush,
His thin legs a good whip-lash,
His fist a nut;
Through bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit.

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his ample fist a blade,
He'll make it whistle;
And legs, and arms, and heads will cut off
Like the heads of thistles.

You powers, who make mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill of fare,
Old Scotland wants no watery stuff,
That splashes in small wooden dishes;
But if you wish her grateful prayer,
Give her a Haggis!

Chieftain Of The Pudding Race

Day 104 honors Robert Burns whose 256th birthday Scots everywhere celebrate today. I give you a translation of the great man's own words regarding the eminent haggis.

Address to a Haggis

Fair and full is your honest, jolly face,
Great chieftain of the sausage race!
Above them all you take your place,
Stomach, tripe, or intestines:
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as my arm.

The groaning trencher there you fill,
Your buttocks like a distant hill,
Your pin would help to mend a mill
In time of need,
While through your pores the dews distill
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour wipe,
And cut you up with ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like any ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm steaming, rich!

Then spoon for spoon, they stretch and strive:
Devil take the hindmost, on they drive,
Till all their well swollen bellies by-and-by
Are bent like drums;
Then old head of the table, most like to burst,
'The grace!' hums.

Is there that over his French ragout,
Or olio that would sicken a sow,
Or fricassee would make her vomit
With perfect disgust,
Looks down with sneering, scornful view
On such a dinner?

Poor devil! see him over his trash,
As feeble as a withered rush,
His thin legs a good whip-lash,
His fist a nut;
Through bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit.

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his ample fist a blade,
He'll make it whistle;
And legs, and arms, and heads will cut off
Like the heads of thistles.

You powers, who make mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill of fare,
Old Scotland wants no watery stuff,
That splashes in small wooden dishes;
But if you wish her grateful prayer,
Give her (i.e., Scotland) a Haggis